


After us, the flood

by aryastark_valarmorghulis, bloodsuitsandtears



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Back Together, James Potter & Lily Evans Potter Live, M/M, POV Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew went to Azkaban, Post-Break Up, Post-First War with Voldemort, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 15:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18813430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryastark_valarmorghulis/pseuds/aryastark_valarmorghulis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsuitsandtears/pseuds/bloodsuitsandtears
Summary: “I was hoping you might be waiting for me.” His tone is light and friendly, but Remus isn’t fooled.“I stopped for a smoke.” He wonders, though. Was he unwittingly waiting for Sirius? In the last eight years, there had been countless smoke breaks, quick trips to grab another wine bottle and rendezvous to decide James’ birthday gift that dissolved into a sloppy snog or a quickie. It didn't happen every time Sirius was back in the country, but it was close enough.





	After us, the flood

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes:  
> This story is inspired by the beautiful art of [bloodsuitandtears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsuitsandtears/pseuds/bloodsuitsandtears) (see below)! I'm incredibly honoured and grateful that she decided to draw two additional - and amazing! - pieces. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!  
> Thank you so much to my wonderful Beta [dearjayycee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearjayycee) for her priceless advice, to RosieLupin and, of course, to the [Wolfstar Big Bang](https://wolfstar-bigbang.tumblr.com/) mods.  
>   
> Warnings: explicit sex, mentions of breaking up.
> 
> -
> 
> Artist's notes:  
> I was so honoured when someone picked my art to write a fic around it. And I'm immensely grateful that it was aryastark who picked it. Thank you sooo much!!! You're amazing! I couldn't be happier with the story! <3  
> It was so inspiring I had ideas for at least four more artworks, but sadly only time for two quick ones.  
> Thanks to the all of the WSBB mods for organising! You're amazing!  
> (The artwork at the end is the original, which started all of this :) )

Remus takes a long drag of his cigarette. He exhales loudly, an almost sorrowful sigh.

The moon is a swollen half-pearl placed in the middle of the velvet blue sky, and the stars are scattered around her, twinkling obnoxiously, like flashing diamonds. He could easily blame the moon for the poor state he's in tonight.  

The shaking in his fingers when they toasted the night, beer foam spilled on the back of his hand, knee joints cracking loudly when he went to the loo, his palms subconsciously rubbing at his temples, where a dull but persistent throbbing planted its seed that morning, when Lily’s owl had flapped her wings at his bedroom window, bearing the simplest message: _Sirius is back, Leaky at seven?_

But Remus is not one to take the easy way, paved with excuses, especially not on nights like this.

His jittery mood has everything to do with being sacked, _again,_ and spending a whole evening with James and Lily – whom he loves but owes a lot of money to – chattering about their steady jobs and their booked holidays doesn’t do wonders for his already low self-esteem.

And then, of course, there’s Sirius. Bloody Sirius, because of some wicked astrological alignment, always comes back to England when Remus is not even scraping the bottom of the barrel anymore: the barrel broke with how much he’s scraped its bottom.

Even at his best, Remus is not remarkable by any standard. At twenty-eight, his best is barely earning enough to afford the rent of some Merlin-forsaken hole and saving every Sickle and Knut so he can buy Harry some cheap trinkets every now and then.

His _worst,_  though, is quite noteworthy: he’s back living with his dad, sleeping in his old little bedroom, full of stuffed animals that seem to watch him at night with their plastic eyes full of judgment. If he doesn’t find another job soon, he won’t even be able to buy cigarettes. The wishful dream of saving up and finding another Ghoul-infested shithole, like the one he'd rented in Manchester, fizzled out a long time ago, like a fag pinched between his trembling fingers.

He throws the butt on the cobblestone and crushes it underneath his shoe, smearing the scuffed brown leather with ashes.

The evening air is crisp but has mellowed its bite, and the shadowy corner under the stone balcony of the Fae’s Feast Pub acts as a sheltered limbo between the subdued whispers of Knockturn Alley and the loud, bubbly chattering of Carkitt Market.

He doesn’t feel like diving into the tangle of streets, the crisscross of alleys, turns and dead-ends that he can travel with eyes closed and thoughtless feet, as if the old twisted and tangled pathway was a memorized Arithmancy diagram. It doesn't seem worth the effort to join the noisy, bouncy crowd of hugging couples and laughing friends, of late Ministry employees just out of work, or retired wizards that fill Diagon Alley on any given spring evening.

He’s alone – no, lonely – if he’s technical about the semantics.

James and Lily retired for an early night in the warm cocoon of their cottage, probably drinking hot tea and cuddling a sleepy Harry in front of the fireplace. Sirius must be back at his hotel already. Otherwise, he’s out Merlin knows where with Merlin knows who.

Remus is left alone outside the pub, his shoulders hunched with fatigue, even if the backpack full of books Lily gave him was promptly spelled with a Feather-Light Charm. He’s dawdling, not quite wanting to go home and meet his dad’s kind, yet pitying gaze.

His mind provides him with the convenient reminder that at least Peter’s locked up in Azkaban. _Schadenfreude_ , it’s called. Relief at another’s misery. Times like these, he’s left with the small, residual comfort that he's not the Marauder with the worst luck.

“Not that tired, then?”

Remus startles, his fingers curling around the wand in his back pocket before relaxing and then tensing again.

Sirius lets the back door of the Fae’s Feast close behind him with a thud of wood and iron hinges.

“I thought you went home because you were _tired_ ,” Sirius says, grey eyes sizing him up like he just caught Remus doing something wrong. Which he didn’t, and anyway, Remus doesn’t owe him any justification.

“I thought you were gone, too.”

Sirius shrugs, zipping up his leather jacket. “I was hoping you might be waiting for me.” His tone is light and friendly, but Remus isn’t fooled.

“I stopped for a smoke.” He wonders, though. Was he unwittingly waiting for Sirius? In the last eight years, there had been countless smoke breaks, quick trips to grab another wine bottle and rendezvous to decide James’ birthday gift that dissolved into a sloppy snog or a quickie. It didn't happen every time Sirius was back in the country, but it was close enough.

“Give me a cigarette, then?” Sirius asks, pushing strands of long hair behind his ears.

 _No,_ Remus wants to answer, but then he’d need to explain that he’s short on money and short of a job and he’ll be short of pride, too. He fishes a crumpled packet out of the back pocket of his corduroys and hands him a cigarette. He only has four left.

Sirius lights it up with a snap of fingers, an obnoxious showy trick he learned at nineteen and never outgrew. It’s unfortunate, really, how effortlessly alluring he is: broad shoulders leaning on the dark brick wall, long legs slouched, arms crossed, hair uncombed, his leather jacket the right amount of distressed just to look like the edgy front-man of a new wave band, rather than a lazy skiver. Almost thirty, and more handsome than ever. It’s not fair, it’s not good for Remus’ nerves.

“So where are we going?” Sirius’ words come out in a puff of smoke. His voice is hoarse, and it's more of a command than a question.

Remus shakes his head. He can picture them already, grabbing each other for another sad fuck in some nameless alley, faces red and eyes downcast later because even if, in the last eight years, they’ve had enough awkward post-coital moments to last a lifetime, apparently they need more.

“I think I’m headed home,” he replies, sounding unconvincing even to himself, but at least he can play a little coy. August 1984 is still etched in his mind: the sweltering, damp summer afternoon Sirius had knocked at his door, just back from Japan. They had fucked in utter silence, on the lumpy bed, the sheets drenched with sweat. After, dining at James and Lily’s, they had barely been able to hold eye contact.

“I don’t  _want_ to go to sleep! It’s not even ten! Let’s do something fun, you and I!” Sirius protests, huffing a petulant breath. “Have you forgotten we used to go _out_ at this hour?”

Not wanting to waste another precious cigarette but not knowing what to do with his hands, Remus starts playing with the straps of his backpack, stroking the rough canvas material between thumb and forefinger.

The Remus who went out late with Sirius, who trekked the streets of London - a shining promise of endless possibilities, after seven years sheltered at Hogwarts - was lost to another lifetime.

“We were young.” He cringes at himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. Way to sound like a patronizing grandfather.

“We’re not even thirty yet!” Sirius spreads his arms wide and scoffs, a bit theatrical, but effective.

Remus only hums. He studies the cluttered three-story shops, instead of looking at Sirius's finely chiseled face. The shuttered windows blink at him like blind, black eyes in the dark, the brick facades of asymmetrical buildings crooked and warped at unexpected angles.

The whole ‘ _Let’s do something fun, you and I’_ is probably only an elaborate version of their old ballet of unsaid words that usually leads them to fucking. But who even knows what Sirius is thinking,  _if_ he’s thinking at all.

Maybe he’s lonely because James and Lily had to pick Harry up from the Burrow and started to gather their coats at nine. Maybe it’s just that London doesn’t feel like home anymore after spending so much time abroad. Maybe he just wants to take an innocuous walk.

“Come on, let’s go somewhere,” Sirius repeats. He throws the cigarette away, an orange loop Vanished before it touches the ground.

 _What a boasting tosser_ , Remus thinks, not unkindly.

“Let’s do something, like- I don’t know, what would you want to do?” Sirius grins, mouth a sharp, wicked scythe. “Besides the obvious.” He winks, wriggling a hand towards himself. _The nerve._

There isn’t a sufficient amount of time or space to immunise Remus from being attracted to Sirius, but he isn’t a blushing teenager anymore.

“You’re so fond of yourself, you should just have a wank,” he deadpans.

Sirius laughs, the usual loud bark. Deep down, hidden in the marrow of his bones, Remus is pleased that even after years and heartbreaks and distance and a war, he can elicit a laugh from Sirius.

“Come on, let’s just take a walk, like old times.” Sirius pulls away from the wall and stretches his arm towards Remus.

There's a split second in which Remus wishes he was brave enough to cut to the chase and ask Sirius what bloody  _good old times_ he's raving about.

The times where they were young and stupid and scared, when they strolled aimlessly through all the dingiest alleys of the city at night, drunk and high on alcohol, weed and what some equally stoned poet might mistakenly call love. Or the times where they didn’t talk or fuck anymore, suspicion and doubt hanging over their heads like Damocles’ swords.

He doesn’t speak a word.

Nostalgia colours the past with indulgent brushstrokes, and the words  _old times_ on Sirius’ tongue tug at his chest like an invisible rope, so Remus goes where he’s pulled and starts walking towards Carkitt Market, following Sirius in stride.

“So, fancy a pint at the Three Broomsticks?” Sirius asks, hands in his jeans pockets.

Remus blinks up at him to check if he’s taking the piss out of him, but Sirius’ handsome, angular face isn’t curved in a smirk, grey eyes lost up where the pointy building roofs climb up the starry sky.

“I didn’t know you meant  _old times_ so literally,” Remus jokes. It’s a matter of seconds to Apparate to Hogsmeade, but there are plenty of bars and pubs in Diagon Alley to go to; but none of them embody  _old times_ like the Three Broomsticks, though.

“I haven’t been in ages,” Sirius explains, with a shrug of black hair and black leather-clad shoulders.

Remus bites back the obvious clarification: _well, of course, you haven’t been in Britain for more than three weeks in a row in eight years._ He can barely bear to sound like a scorned, abandoned lover in his own head, but never in front of Sirius. It’s part of their tacit agreement: nostalgic sex is allowed, but leftover feelings must go unspoken.

“Oh, me neither, for all I know it’s closed and there’s a post office in its place now,” he replies, as casual as he can, but when Sirius holds out his arm to Disapparate together, Remus grabs a fistful of leather and hangs on tight as the night swallows them away.

The Three Broomsticks Inn is still there.

The slanted shape of its brick walls might be clouded by the darkness, but the soft yellow light spilling from the windows and the single lantern dangling over the entrance play the same cosy song Remus remembers from their Hogwarts years.

Even the interior hasn’t changed a bit. Well, it probably hasn’t changed since the times of Hengist of Woodcroft, Remus reckons, the stone walls buttered with chandelier light and bluebell flames floating mid-air, a huge hearth warming the smoky, nebulous air. The early Friday night crowd a blur of chattering people, glasses clinking and wands weaving.

Remus pinpoints the only free spot, a narrow, three-legged oak table squeezed between the storage room door and a window, a handful of candles fluctuating above it, and waits for Sirius to get the drinks.

After a couple of minutes, Remus cranes his neck to peek at the packed counter, glimpsing fragments of Madam Rosmerta and Sirius, half-obscured by the moving pointed hat of an old wizard: blonde curls bouncing, a shawl covered arm moving, a black jacket standing out between a sea of green and blue and red and pink robes.

He keeps looking at Sirius and Rosmerta, in a bubble of self-deception because as long as he doesn’t avert his gaze, James and Peter can be sitting next to him, faces young and eyes twinkling with laughter and mischief.

The bubble pops when Sirius shoulders his way through to their table, every single detail about him an adult’s, the wiry frame, the long hair brushing his shoulders, the thick sideburns, the angular jawline: quite a few heads turn to spare him a glance as he skirts around the tables. Sirius’ younger self would have preened under the appreciation, but now he discounts it and places two foaming tankards on their table.

“Butterbeer?” Remus raises his eyebrows without realising it.

Sirius sits down on the stool across from him and grins. “I thought we could start lightly and save the hard stuff for the Hog’s Head,” he explains.

“The Hog’s Head- what is this, a trip down memory lane? Where else are you planning to go, the Forbidden Forest?” Remus chuckles, but as soon as his lips taste the sweet foam, the butterscotch flavour melts on his tongue, sugary like a faded childhood memory, the recollection blurred by the tidal wave of time, only the fuzzy feeling of warmth left.

Sirius hums and drinks. Remus is aware they’re both reminiscing, the smile shared over their drinks tinged with a soft kind of sadness.

“I don’t have any plan, Moony, I just wanted to do something tonight.” Sirius wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and Remus' fingers twitch, a muscle memory, a phantom itch to smooth his thumb over Sirius red lips and then taste the wetness on his own mouth. “Listen, let’s do it like this: we go to the Hog’s Head, and then the next two destinations are your choice, alright? So we’re even and you have the last word.”

Remus’ alcohol tolerance is way too high to lose focus for a Butterbeer, and the implication isn’t lost to him as the fresh liquid glides pleasantly down his throat: Sirius is leaving in his hands the proverbial wand’s handle, the final decision of shagging or not.

“After the Hog’s Head I’ll probably want to go to sleep,” he shrugs, feigning a nonchalance that’s starting to waver. Aimlessly strolling all night with Sirius, sex their final destination, is shaping up to be a far lovelier possibility than heading home to find his dad asleep on the couch with the wireless still on. Even his headache has subsided.

“Your choice,” Sirius repeats, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he downs the last sip of Butterbeer, light tone showing how confident he is that Remus prefers to stay with him instead of heading home. Sirius’ jaw and cheeks are carved like marble under the candlelight, light dancing on his pale skin, and it’s way too easy, way too tempting, to cling on to the thread of sex and shared life experience they’ve been tethered to since – well, since too long for being only a sex story, Remus thinks.

But the yarn has been cut and mended and re-tied and shortened and unfurled so many times it can’t be a love story, not anymore at least. When time and space warp and gnarl everything, all that’s left is an entangled cluster of love and friendship and hurt and guilt, all wreathed together.

“So, what have you been doing lately?” Sirius asks, elbows on the polished table, hands under his chin.

Remus is afraid he’s being scrutinized in all the ways he’s changed during the last months, or even years – he does it himself whenever Sirius comes back, taking note of what’s different and what remains the same. Time has never been kind to him, and the greying hairs, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth are visible signs of its passage.

He traces the rim of his almost empty mug with a finger, feeling the weight of Sirius’ eyes fixed on him. “Ah, nothing much, the usual,” his reply bears the usual brand of vagueness he resorts to whenever he’s asked that question, but at the core, he’s speaking the truth. He hasn’t  _done_ much, not from the perspective of a curse-breaker like Sirius, at least: the same habitual back and forth of waiting tables, editing articles, hunting down the occasional Poltergeist or colony of Red Caps, all dotted with more or less long intervals of not working.

“I mean, since I left. In the last eight years.”

In a second, Remus looks up at him. What a ridiculous, unanswerable question. Sirius is staring with those unblinking eyes of his, that always made him feel flustered and helpless, at the centre of a brilliant, incandescent star. Now Remus laughs and scoffs, because how can he possibly reply?

“Just tell me the truth, Pads: you’ve been hit in the head by that cursed chest of coins in Trazmos, haven’t you? It wasn’t just a _wand spin_ like you boasted at dinner. Otherwise, I can’t possibly explain how you’ve forgotten that you haven’t been _away_ for eight years straight and we’ve seen each other plenty of times – and we wrote, too!” _We also fucked at least a dozen times, or did you forget about the spare prick ready to be used whenever you’re back home_ is what he doesn’t add.

Sirius shifts in his seat and pushes his long hair behind his ears, holding up one finger. “One wand spin, Moony! One. And I didn’t mean to ask what you _did,_  like, writing about Transfiguration or working in that Muggle bookshop.” That was two years ago, but Remus keeps his mouth shut. “I want to know about the other things… the things that matter.”

_The things that matter._

The reason Sirius is attempting to have the first heavy conversation after he left, eight years ago, is beyond Remus. An almost-thirty crisis, maybe, but he can shove it and dump his meltdowns on Prongs.

How can Remus compress eight years in a few sentences? The drinking and the loneliness and the drugs after the end of the war. The pointlessness left from the absence of an enemy to fight, the Peter shaped hole  _and_ the Sirius shaped hole punched him and Prongs and Lily almost simultaneously. The full moons caged in the Ministry’s basement, all furious howling stuck in his mind for days like an echo. The streak of odd jobs lost and found, the Sunday lunches at James and Lily’s, three survivors instead of a tight group of five. Sirius coming back, full of gifts and adventures, and then leaving again, tearing a new shred in his already shattered heart every time, until time worked its healing magic and it stopped hurting so much.

The complexity of almost a decade outmatches the means of languages. It’s far easier to say _nothing much, the usual,_ but he knows Sirius is a dog with a bone, quite literally, so instead of playing dumb and asking  _what are the bloody things that matter_ , Remus answers. Obliquely.

Remus recounts the last two years, after the bookstore, tells Sirius that Lily put him in contact with a friend of a friend who’s a senior editor for Merge Publications, and sometimes he edits articles or textbooks, other times he even wrote a couple of short pieces. He talks fondly about Sunday lunches at James and Lily’s, about the improvised Charm School they set up with Frank, Alice, Molly Weasley, the Abbots and the Goldsteins, and how lovely it is to teach the children occasionally. He tells him about Harry and Neville, about the grammar and fairy tale books in his backpack that he is meant to use for his next lectures.

He’s aware Sirius wants to know what he’s not saying, what he is deliberately keeping for himself, but he’s glad Sirius doesn’t press. They were never good at talking about the things that matter, and they haven’t improved much in eight years.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Sirius asks, after he’s done talking, and Remus has to laugh. So  _this_ is a thing that matters.

“You could have asked right away, you know? Without letting me attempt to recap years and years,” he chuckles. His mind roams through to the string of nameless one-night stands he’s had, mulls over the brief affair with Gretchen, over Sirius himself. “I’m not, by the way,” he adds.

“Me neither,” Sirius says, quickly. Remus unclenches the hands he hadn’t realised he was clutching the edge of the table with. It’s probably a code for  _so we’re both free, let’s go shag_ , but Sirius only waves his fingers at their empty mugs.

“Ready for something stronger?”

Remus nods, and when they stand he starts to fish for the few Sickles he has left in his pockets, but Sirius puts a hand on his forearm to stop him.

“Hey, it’s my treat! I invited you, it’s only right.”

It’s only right if one of us is filthy rich and the other is broke, Remus thinks, but that is how Sirius has always been, so he mutters a thank you as they leave.

The air seems crisper on their heated cheeks, a cold draft weaselling its way under his loose jumper, a shiver down his spine that has nothing to do with Sirius’ hand resting on the small of his back, just below the backpack hanging from one shoulder, gently steering them towards the Hog’s Head as if Remus forgot the way.

It’s a short walk, more happy, boyish memories than yards, High Street flanked by dark shop fronts, the familiar outline of black mountains beyond the village, the curve in the road that leads off towards the Shack, and light spilling from the second-floor windows of the cluttered buildings where the shop owners live.

It’s dark, but the night is still young, a few people passing them by, but all Remus can see is Peter tripping on the uneven step outside of Zonko’s, James levitating snowballs to hit Snape in the head, Lily offering Honeydukes sweets to all her friends, Marlene arm in arm with Dorcas, a pretty picture of red and blue scarves glued together. They cross the narrow side street where Remus kissed Caradoc once.

The hand on his back squeezes a little, brings him back to the present, to Sirius’ oddly silent presence, familiar and yet so strange. Sirius the boy was a dog-eared, spine cracked, read and memorized book, but Sirius the man is a volume written with invisible ink, the memoirs of a life abroad that Remus isn’t part of.

He would never admit it out loud, but it scares him, the possibility of not knowing Sirius anymore; in the past eight years he’s compared and searched and tried to spot vestiges of his old mannerisms and gestures, patterns of speech, just to check there’s still something of the man, of his Padfoot that’s not been his for so many years.

“Sickle for your thoughts?” Sirius asks. They turn right, towards the gloomy cross street leading to the Hog’s Head, its gruesome sign swinging in the non-existent wind.

“Oh, please,” Remus replies, cold hands pushing a wooden door that shrieks and protests but gives in under the pressure. “They’re worth a Galleon at least.”

Heavy oak beams, leaning cracked walls, uneven dirty floor, worm-eaten wood tables, particles of dust floating in the foul air, the pungent smell of stable assaulting his nose, the Hog’s Head is pretty much the same.

No-one spares them a glance, all the patrons engaged in hushed conversations – shady dealings, more probably – but behind the bar, a dirty rag in hands, Aberforth nods, his usual, and only way of acknowledging old acquaintances.

It’s a small comfort, how some things never change: even if they fought and apparently won a war together, Aberforth remains the grumpy old man who served them Firewhisky during their Hogsmeade trips, pretending not to notice they were underage.

Sirius orders two glasses of redcurrant rum, an old classic of theirs, and Remus watches him watching Aberforth pouring a generous amount of blood coloured liquid in two stained tumblers. He’s playing with the wand hidden in the breast pocket of his jacket, strands of hair shadowing his classical profile.

They both wham it in one gulp and slam their empty glasses on the counter, ready for another. After the second, Sirius lets out a half cough and Remus, barely bothered by the sour, burning drink, chuckles. “Almost thirty and you still can’t hold your liquor.”

“Oh, don’t be a tosser,” Sirius bites back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’d need more hands than the goddess Kali to count the times I watched you throwing up like a miserable sod.” He says it without any trace of pungency, voice amused and fond, eyes crinkling like Vanishing away Remus’ vomit stains had been great fun, a highlight in his life of relinquishing monsters in the middle of the Mediterranean sea, finding the lost library of Alexandria and descending into the catacombs of Paris to acquire cursed treasures. And those are only the last of his feats, the ones he bragged about at dinner with James and Lily.

“True,” Remus smiles, a bit sheepishly. He’s  _not_ blushing under Sirius’ gaze, but the third shot of rum is warming his throat, and his shoulders, knotted with the fatigue over another wasted day, are slowly loosening. He hasn’t gone out in a while because money is tight and anyway chatting with Sirius is different than picking out a stranger at a muggle bar and pretending to be someone else.

And Sirius and he are, of course, flirting, an old, ancient dance that shouldn’t be thrilling or new by any means, but somehow is still both.

Thrilling because his body is always going to be stirred by Sirius’ vibrancy, like an old tuneless piano under the hands of the finest musician, and new because Sirius is not the same person he was in 1980, when they broke up, or even in 1981, when the war ended and he bolted. Is Remus himself? And had they stayed together all of this time would they have grown into the people they are today? Remus ponders those impossible questions, staring at the rickety wooden staircase behind the counter, spiralling upstairs: he could make one of the guest rooms their next destination, and it wouldn’t be the sleaziest place they’ve ever shagged, not in the slightest.

“Well, I summarised what I did in the last eight years,” he says instead. “Now it’s your turn.”

Sirius snorts, the sound not ruining the elegant poise of his limbs. “But you know everything about me already, I sent you a million owls only in the last four months.”

True. They didn’t write at all during the first year, when the war was still a bleeding, open wound and Remus was dying a little inside, but then one evening an owl knocked at his window and with it the discovery that it wasn’t that painful anymore, to look at a postcard and at Sirius’ messy scrawl behind, _Greetings from Istanbul, Moony, I’ll be back in two weeks._

At first, it hurt so much that Remus resigned himself to accept that Sirius’ absence was forever going to be an incurable wound, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding until all that’d be left of him was a numb, empty shell. Instead, time healed him, like it always does, time changed them and reconciled them, too.

But at times, when Sirius is back home and they share a knowing glance or an old joke, or he just watches him playing with Harry as Padfoot, Remus thinks that not even time can soothe the ache, the longing, the lack of Sirius in his heart. Pain never goes away: you only become accustomed to it, an omnipresent background noise that never really vanishes.

After that postcard, a correspondence started to flow again, at first a small trickle and a steady stream in the last two years or so. “Sometimes you didn’t even answer me, Moony... made me wonder if I was bothering you...” Sirius trails off, gazing at the depths of his small glass, sipping slowly his third drink instead of downing it.

At this, Remus feels his cheeks flush: typical Sirius, to exert a pang of guilt out of him. In the last months Sirius had taken to writing him almost every other day, and he didn’t always answer.

“Look, I’m sorry, but your letters were all ‘ _Oh, yesterday after lunch I broke Amenhotep's curse and found a treasure, I caught a glimpse of the Yeti, hey, look, the ruins of Atlantis’._  What was I supposed to answer to all that? How exciting, Pads, today I ran out of tea and when I went to the grocery store a car sprayed me with a splash of mud and ruined my favourite trousers?”

Sirius lets out a chuckle, but his eyes are piercing and earnest when he replies: “I would have wanted to read your everyday stuff.”

Remus is sure the hot flush spreading over his cheeks has nothing to do with the drinks and everything to do with the unalterable truth that he’ll always be flustered when Sirius shows his interest so openly, without hiding behind jokes, his gaze delving deep into Remus’ skin.

He thinks, as pathetic as it is, he could spend a lifetime letting Sirius peer into him with those cloudy eyes of his, until he scratches the surface and peels away the layers, until he reaches the core, so Sirius can finally see the truth etched in the bones of his skull, in the tricuspid valve that pumps his blood, in the tired muscles torn and knitted back together every month. He’s still in love with the same boy – no, the same man – who comes and goes, fickle and unpredictable like the zephyr wind that blows on spring days.

He’s in love with his best friend and with a stranger.

Sirius nurses his drinks in silence. Remus wonders if Sirius’ thoughts are roving in the same direction as his – hoping, maybe. They haven’t been together since last September. The sloppy kisses shared against James’ bathroom door don’t count: it was only a brief snog, a happy new year’s drunken and sad moment between ex-lovers without anyone else to kiss at midnight.

“So, where to now? It’s your turn to choose, but let’s do something fun, Moony,” says Sirius, after a few moments, glasses empty again.

“I’m not sure I can match a curse-breaker’s idea of  _fun,_ ” he jokes, only to see Sirius laugh, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“You’ve always been funny when you wanted to,” Sirius winks.

This time Remus puts up a fight when Sirius insists on paying for both, so he slams a few Sickles on the counter and refuses to put them back in his pockets. Merlin knows how little money he’s left with, but the Hog’s Head is cheap enough.

Soon they’re outside again, a cold night breeze arisen to bite at their cheeks, dark clouds obfuscating the stars, the oval moon a tarnished opal, like it’s been pushed underwater.

“So?” Sirius prompts, impatient as ever.

“Let me think for a second!” Remus has two destinations to decide – he already knows the last one is Sirius’ hotel room, but they can amuse themselves with the other.

Sirius throws up his hands in mock-disappointment. “Damn, the more you think, the less fun it’s going to be.”

“Oh, shut up,” Remus replies, then grabs him by the shoulder, a well-known destination pictured clearly in his mind, and they’re gone in a gust of wind.

“Aw, a back alley, I knew it, Moony! I only hope our pricks don’t freeze-”

Remus makes a show of rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling when he pushes Sirius by the arms, leather cracking under his fingers, towards the faint buzz of music.

He Apparated them in a narrow dead alley indeed, a deserted footpath at their right and a high wire mesh at their left, all around them dirty, dark walls full of vulgar graffiti and lewd remarks about Thatcher and the government.

The only remarkable detail – for wizards at least – is that the cracked, piss-smelling plaster buzzes and vibrates, like a giant hornet is trapped inside, struggling to escape its concrete prison. Remus lights his wand and skims over the building wall until he raps the tip twice on a small fissure, almost invisible if you don’t know where to look.

Two curved rifts twist and slither until they meet in a pointed arch, and a little metal handle appears on the side.

As Remus pushes inside, his synapses quake, like pixies trapped in a cage, the screams of a wizarding punk song blasted at ear-splitting volume, the darkness violently split by an array of hot purple, silver and electric blue stroboscopic lighting, a wall of bodies twisting like a big uncoiling snake.

Remus is not anymore a regular at the Fang Bang – he’s not been in almost a year, actually. He preferred the club when it was still niche and relatively unknown, a safe space for vampires, werewolves and wizarding minorities in general, but it became trendy after a few years, and nowadays it’s packed with an eclectic crowd: from rebellious pure-bloods to bored couples in search of a thrill, from wide-eyed, just out of Hogwarts kids to middle-aged queer people.

Once they served only beers and blood shots, but as he glances towards the bar, Remus notices a row of moving shelves floating lazily behind the counter, cluttered with colourful bottles and glasses of various shapes. Mid-air in the dark ceiling, a few silver bongs blow out whiffs of red smoke, and his eyes water.

Yet he chose to Apparate here, if only to prove he can pick a fun place – and also because Sirius used to love clubbing.

Sirius pays for both their entry tickets, handing the money to a pasty-faced gaunt woman dressed in red robes – obviously a vampire – who takes Sirius’ jacket and Remus’ backpack to Levitate them in the storage room with a bored snap of fingers.

They push their way through the dancing crowd, bumping against hands and elbows and boots and stilettos, Remus’ hand clasped around Sirius’ forearm, smooth skin warm under his fingertips.

The counter is black and sleek, streaked with white runes that float lazily on the polished surface, pretentious as fuck, in Remus’ opinion, and crowded, until three young girls in long cloaks and short skirts make room for them. All three turn to look at Sirius, and so does a group of sunken, pale, vampires at their left, leaving Remus to self-consciously wipe his sweaty palms on his old corduroys, hyper-aware of how insignificant he must look in his cable knit jumper.

A gorgeous woman with corkscrew curls, wand tucked behind her ear, appears to take their order, smiling sweetly at Sirius.

“Two shots of… something not too strong and not too sour!” Sirius shouts at her to be heard over the music, “Your choice, we trust you!”

She winks and turns to the bottle shelf, summoning three bottles with a wave of her wand.

“Lots of people out for blood tonight!” Sirius yells in his ear, long hair brushing Remus’ cheek.

Remus grins and grabs the violet drink that is promptly placed in front of them, swallowing it in one gulp: it only tastes like blueberry and sugar, and he doubts there’s even alcohol in it.

“Half the people in here would really like to taste  _your_ blood!” he screams back, one hand on Sirius’ shoulder, and he can smell the faint tang of sweat on his skin.

Sirius laughs, the sound swallowed by the loud buzz of music, all glistening white teeth and eyes alight with a hint of mischief. “And the other half?” he shouts back, sneaking an arm around Remus’ waist in a half embrace, a promise of more to come. Remus plays along. “Probably only want to shag you!”

Smugness drips from Sirius’ sharp smile, their faces so close Remus can see the littlest wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, laugh lines put there by other lovers, other friends. He wants to hold him closer, to kiss him.

“Let’s go dancing!” Sirius yells, and grabs him by the wrist, pushing through the dance-floor’s chaos, a sweat patch staining the back of his white shirt.

Sirius dances with his eyes closed and like no-one’s watching, but of course they all are, the flashes of light masking his movements, every sway of his hips and wave of his arms on pause at different moments, his face and hair awash with purple and silver and blue.

Remus can’t even say what music is playing, or how long they’ve been on the dance-floor. Is there even music at all? He doesn’t care. Sweat trickling down his back, he moves like a puppet on strings, an anonymous drop in the collective wave of dancing in the darkness, seizing the opportunity to observe Sirius without being watched, the long column of his neck shiny with perspiration, the forehead creased with a fine vertical line he’d like to smooth with a thumb, the mesmerizing bow of his lips.

Then, in two purple flashes, Sirius is pressing against him, fingers clutching a handful of his jumper at the waist, knees knocking, long hair tickling his nose, warm breath against his mouth.

A fuse fires up between his throat and his prick and Remus lets it burn, cups his palms around Sirius’ jaw, his pulse thrumming a wild thump against his fingers.

They kiss like it’s the first time and like they’ve been kissing for half their lives, lips open and wet and eager to taste alcohol and cigarettes on each other’s tongues.

The crowd and music dissolve, an out-of-focus background – they could be in the club or anywhere else, space reduced to a flat, unimportant line – and time blurs, too, like an infinite line, until they’re both men and boys, friends and lovers, happiness and hurt laced just as tightly as their bodies, but they’re still not close enough. It’s never enough, Remus thinks, as Sirius traces the old vertical scar under his left eye with his smooth thumb, kisses his ear and shouts: “Do you want to drink something else or should we go?”

This time it’s Remus who grabs Sirius’ hands and ploughs through the crowd, like a wild animal in a jungle, boots skirting around to avoid spilt drinks and broken glasses.

Theoretically, The Fang Bang has a policy of not fucking inside the club, but if bathroom walls could talk, they’d recount a different story. As on cue, as soon as they push the black wood door open, four pairs of high heels peek out of the first stall, so Remus picks the second. He throws the door open and braces himself above the toilet seat, palms up against the splintered wood, the thrum of music muffled when Sirius clicks – and he hopes, spells – the door shut.

He senses Sirius drawing closer behind him and he wants to say something, anything that  _matters_ , but every thought is fragmented and slippery and bitter and frail and hopeful, and Sirius is so, so close, too close for words.

He opens his mouth to demand what the hell he’s waiting for, until Sirius is there, his chest against Remus’ back, body warm and familiar, sweaty hands rubbing his elbows. For a second, the lack of distance between their bodies is hurting him, because a shag isn’t enough to bridge the gap between them, but Remus grabs every morsel of Sirius he can scrape together.

Sirius is pressed against him head to toe, so close he can feel his hot breath on his skin, his nose brushing the base of his neck, the barest touch, a small thing compared to what Remus’ body needs right now.

“I missed you,” Sirius whispers, and Remus couldn’t say what makes his prick harder, the hushed confession or the metallic clang of a belt unbuckled.

Remus unfastens his own trousers with shaking fingers instead of answering, the fabric pooled around his thighs, goosebumps rising on his arse, exposed in a silent request. Sirius is hot and hard as a rock as he slips between his sweaty arse cheeks. Remus swallows a moan and arches his back, Sirius rubbing himself against the tender flesh of his bum.

“I missed you so much, Moony,” Sirius breathes out again, muffled against his neck, fingers gripping the soft flesh of his hips.

“Just give it to me,” Remus pleads, a begging request to shut up and get on with it, because he can’t bear tenderness if it’s going to be taken away just after they’re done.

Sirius grunts and moans, fingers scratching his sides, ruts and rubs against his dry hole, and Remus wanks roughly, eyes closed, tongue tasting the sweat on his upper lip. He wants more, for Sirius to fuck him, to possess him, to make him feel it tomorrow and all the days he won’t be here anymore, to shatter the space-time continuum so he’ll be with him today and tomorrow and in the next ten years and forever.  
But they’re in a dirty bathroom stall, and people might come knocking, so he must settle for wanking while Sirius thrusts, thick and wet now, between his arse cheeks. The muffled echo of music buzzes and hums in his ears, or maybe it’s the pounding of his own heart, and the fleeting thought that this is not enough – it will never be enough – drowns in his mind as he arches up, a wave rushing through him.

After they’re spent, the tenderness lingers: Sirius strokes the mess between Remus’ legs with gentle fingers, mouth kissing his neck, soft as a caress.

Remus turns his head and watches, mesmerized, breath snagging in his throat, Sirius licking his fingers clean. “It’s good,” he murmurs. As soon as the come dripping down the inside of his thighs is cleaned with a whispered _Tergeo_ , Remus looks away, tucks himself back into his trousers, his prick twitching again already, his heart a wild thump in his chest.

“Shall we go?” he croaks, astounded to hear his voice working.

“Oh, yes, just give me a second-” Sirius starts to button up his jeans, and Remus takes advantage of the complicated clasp of his belt buckle to slip out of the bathroom.

“Waiting outside.”

He exhales and inhales, his breath slowly evening out, washes his shaking hands on the sink, splashes cold water on his sweaty face, glad there aren’t mirrors inside the Fang Bang – it would be rude to vampires, he reckons – because he doesn’t need to know how wrecked he looks right now. He doesn’t want to know if his love for Sirius is etched clearly on his face, because in the moments of raw, fragile post-coital vulnerability, he still hasn’t learned how to hide it.

Sirius stumbles outside, cheeks bright pink, strands of hair near his face curled with sweat, and nearly bumps into a portly middle-aged man who just opened the bathroom door.

“We’re in the way,” Remus points out, and he leaves the bathroom, Sirius tailing him.

As they wait for the woman at the doorway to retrieve their jacket and backpack, Sirius hugs him from behind, his sinewy arms curling around Remus' chest, his nose pressed on the soft skin of his neck. The red-hot scorching jolt of arousal spills again from Remus’ chest to his groin. The night doesn’t have to end yet, he can delay the moment of saying goodbye, go in Sirius’ room and fuck another time. But then Sirius  _sniffs_ him, a gesture so Padfoot-like that Remus snorts.

“Do I stink?” He’s pretty sure he does: he feels sticky all over, under the armpits, on his back, behind his knees, between his legs.

Sirius lets go of him to shrug into his jacket, lips curled in a lopsided smile. “No, you smell very nice,” he lies.

This time, resurfacing outside is a shock of frigid air, the sweat cooling unpleasantly, and Remus regrets not grabbing a coat before he left home that afternoon.

He tries to avoid any lingering post-sex awkwardness with the eventuality of more sex to come. “You have a room at the Leaky, right? We’re near Old Compton Street, so Charing Cross is only a five min-”

“Ah. I’m not staying at the Leaky, Moony,” Sirius cuts him off. “Er- are you still living near Notting Hill?”

The flat in Blenheim Crescent was two years ago, but Remus tries not to begrudge him for not knowing he moved three times since then: they’ve established they’re not any good about discussing the things that matter, and even if tonight they’ve been talking more than in the previous eight years, they’re much better together when they don’t speak at all.

“No, I’m not, um, so – sorry, but where are _you_ staying, then?” Remus asks, still harbouring the hope of veering the conversation far from the topic of where he lives at the moment and closer to where Sirius is lodging. This weird search for a place to shag is a testament to how clumsy their relationship can be at times. One moment they’re all over each other, and the next they’re standing one foot apart, hands inside pockets, eyes fixed on their shoes.

“Well, the thing is, Moony, I’m not staying in a hotel,” Sirius starts, voice a little breathless. He lets out a little laugh, rubs the back of his neck with a hand. “I bought a house. Finally.”

“ _Oh_. Good, that’s great, Pads, congratulations,” Remus forces out a smile, tries not to compare himself, back in his father’s cottage, with Sirius, who has enough funds to buy a house and use it for a total of maybe two months a year. Suddenly he registers the tiredness of his legs muscles, his spine hunching a little, the little bubble of excitement bursting and leaving him heavy with weariness.

“I’m thinking of moving back for good…” Sirius shrugs.

Remus scratches his nose with cold fingers, a sigh escaping his lips: he’s heard this one countless times before during their reunion dinners and lunches, as a joke whenever Lily asked Sirius when he’s going to settle down, as an offhanded comment to James, as a bland promise to little Harry sniffling because his godfather was going away so soon again.

But he’s never, ever, said it to Remus alone. He attempts not to indulge the delusional flame of hope that this time he means it, and he ignores the detail that Sirius never bought a house before, too.

“Alright,” Remus replies, because if he doesn’t say a word there’s no risk of sounding like a miserable lovesick fool. “Where is this new house?”

“Oh, in Devon, near Tipton St. John.”

Remus tries his best not to gape at him, but his efforts must be in vain, because Sirius chuckles, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

“Prongs and Lily made the same face, for the record.”

It comes with a twinge of jealousy, but of course, obviously James and Lily already know, and really, it  _should_ make sense for Sirius to buy a house near theirs, in Ottery St. Catchpole.

Still, Remus finds it quite the undertaking, appeasing the image of Sirius living in a little, remote country house, even only for short periods of time. Somehow he always pictured him in London, or some other big city, but the truth is he has no idea about Sirius living arrangements in the past years – just as Sirius knows little of his own.

“Well, it’s a bit surprising, that’s all. Look, it’s kind of cold, so, er, do you still want to...” he trails off.

“Moony, yes, of course I do!” Sirius says, so eagerly that Remus smiles, pleased. “I’m just not sure I can Apparate right now, I’m not drunk but I’ve had a few drinks… see, I Splinched myself last year in Minsk, and trust me, it wasn’t pretty to have a chunk of knee missing at 25 degrees below zero.”

Remus hums and thinks for a second: they have to reach Devon, but Sirius can’t Apparate and Remus doesn’t know the exact location. They’re near Diagon Alley, though. “We could go to the Leaky and use their Floo?” he suggests.

Sirius shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but my fireplace isn’t connected to the Floo network yet... what about hailing the Knight Bus?”

Well, at least Remus could sit and rest up his legs, maybe even nap before another round. “Let’s call it in the main street though, I’m not sure it can shrink enough to slip in this alley.”

Sirius wraps one arm on his shoulder, above the backpack, and in return, Remus hooks two fingers on his belt loops, a half embrace of drunks except they’re not drunk, or at least Remus isn’t.

As soon as they reach Old Compton Street, Remus looks around and gestures for Sirius to wait for a group of muggles singing drunkenly out of tune to pass them by before sticking his wand up in the air.

They wait for a few seconds, Sirius turning his head right and left, but only a couple of muggle cars cross the road. “Should I call it again?”

“Nah, they’re probably up in Scotland or something.” Remus tugs Sirius by the sleeve towards the little bench next to the muggle bus stop. “It might take a while, once I waited for more than twenty minutes,” he explains, joints creaking as he sits down on the cold plastic, backpack on the cobblestone pavement. “Come sit.”

Sirius sits next to him, a lot more gracefully than he did, a black boot bumping against a battered brown shoe, scuffed and unlaced.

“Tired?” he asks.

“Depends,” Remus smiles, but yes, he feels rather worn-out. “On what you want to do once we’re home.” It sounds like a wrong turn of phrase, _once we’re home_. A relic of a past that never really went away.

Sirius reaches out, his hand on Remus’, a surprisingly tender gesture.

“You know already I want to shag you. But it’s not just that – I, I want to be with you,” he’s stammering, his voice tinged with the rushed, whispery timbre of a confession. Remus wants to glance away and shut Sirius’ mouth, because they’re past the expiration date for love declarations, too old and too broken and too mismatched, but Sirius’ eyes are huge and pained and he discovers he can’t look away.

“I miss you all the time when I’m away, Moony,” he adds, and at this Remus does look away, because the barren street spins and swivels and when it’s back on its rails London is unhinged from its axis, an upside-down city, where suddenly they’re allowed tenderness and feelings again. _Things that matter_ , stuffed down in a dark corner of Remus’ mind, dusty with time and disuse. Voicing his feelings out loud never came easy to him, not even back then; now it’s like trying to turn a rusty knob to put into motion a wheel that hasn’t been spinning for years.

“By all means, don’t say a word, Remus, just leave me here pouring my bloody guts out like an idiot-”

“I’m sorry? Merlin, but what do you expect me to say? We haven’t been talking in ages and then one night you decide you want – what? You want to make sure that I still-” he scoffs, the words dying in his throat, his hand slipping out from Sirius’ grasp to rub the bridge of his nose. This is not what he meant to say, not at all.

“Well, I _still,_ for the records,” adds Sirius, like an afterthought, a casual comment thrown away at the cold air, a show of defiance, even, that he  _still_ , in spite of everything. “It must mean something, right?”

At the periphery of his field of vision, Sirius wipes his nose with his sleeve and Remus blindly reaches out for his hand, entwining their fingers, even if his mind swirls with doubts and hesitation, because what will he do when Sirius lets go of the hand that now he’s clutching so tightly? It’s a loss he already experienced and Remus knows already how painful it is, should he suffer it again. But he doesn’t want to think about it now, because it means everything that Sirius  _still_. It’s eight years late, and it still means everything.

He recalls the day Sirius left, just after Peter’s trial. Their mechanical goodbye after a sleepless night on two opposite sides of the bed, Remus dying a little inside, because they were so young and hurt and confused. He was so ready to forgive Sirius for suspecting him, but instead he let him slip between his fingers, he didn’t beg him to stay, he didn’t try to unearth the reasons behind his abrupt decision to flee.

He remembers feeling like a small splinter of debris, broken at the end of the war conflagration that shattered them and blasted friends and lovers away like shrapnel. Remus and James left to stick together and lick their wounds, Sirius away, Peter gone.

They’ve never even said “it’s over” out loud or yelled or strove to sort things out, after discovering that Peter was the spy, they just abandoned the love that burned high and fast between them outside to freeze and die.

Except, for Remus, it never really died, it fought and endured, stubborn like ivy clinging to a run-down wall.

Sirius squeezes his fingers. “Just bloody say something?” he prompts him, again.

Remus swallows, because he hasn’t uttered a word that matters yet. It’s disbelieving, and so Sirius-like, the  _nerve_ of unbreaking a heart in one night after years, but it’s also very Remus-like to let him.

Remus looks outside the dirty, empty road, at the pitch black darkness of the night sky, beyond the street lamps. London has always struck him as a city with more shadows than lights, every floodlit tower and palace and museum and library counteracted with just as many gloomy, bleak corners. He’s just staring at one: maybe he must gaze into a black, hidden nook to fish out the elusive answers to Sirius’ question.

“Are you moving back for real?” he asks, a question instead of an answer, dread or hope pounding in his throat, or maybe an exhilarating mixture of both.

“ _Yes!_ ” Sirius scoots closer, close until their thighs are touching, and his grey eyes, under the harsh street-lamp light, are shiny and full of hope and – love. They’re full of love and Remus can’t help himself.

“I still, I _still_ , too,” the words tumble out of his lips, stilted and clumsy and he feels like his chest is flayed open, his broken heart ready for the taking. “But why didn’t you say it before, that you were staying?”

Sirius smiles, the sweetest, happiest grin, dimples dotting his cheeks. “Er, I just decided,” he replies, but before Remus can do so much as shake his head, he cuts him off: “No, just listen to me, Moony: I’ve been thinking a lot, lately,” Sirius starts, and then stops with an almost expectant expression, waiting for Remus to make their obligatory old, well-worn joke.

“Did you strain yourself?” he obliges.

Sirius smiles again, their eyes still locked. “Do you remember New Year’s Eve? I couldn’t stop thinking about you, after... that’s why I started to write almost every day, because I missed you so much, and I started to consider moving back. So I bought a house.”

Remus tosses and turns those words in his head, back and forth, not sure they’re remembering the same thing. Memory is a fickle thing, after all.

Four months ago, at Lily and James’ customary New Year’s Eve party, just after midnight, Harry and Neville already put to sleep, the party dwindling and sizzling, the music turned down, the couples whispering and cuddling, Remus sought refuge in the bathroom, flushed with wine and Firewhisky. He found Sirius waiting for him outside in the dim corridor and it had been all too easy to tumble into his arms and try in vain to kiss away his loneliness. The whole thing lasted about two minutes, and Sirius left a couple of days after.

“It wasn’t even that good,” Remus argues. “We were drunk, and I had drool on my chin after…”

“It was good to me,” Sirius replies, voice low. “I thought... I didn’t want to leave again, I wanted to stay there with you for-”

A loud bang swallows Sirius’ voice, and they both jump to their feet. Wonderful timing.

Their ride is finally here, a purple, triple-decker bus with huge wheels and blinding headlights, a round-faced woman sticking her head outside, a long ponytail swinging out of the window seat. “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard, step on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Elizabeth Miller and I’ll be your conductor tonight, are you getting in or not, love birds?”

Remus picks up his backpack and, hand in hand, they step up the bus. While Sirius pays for their tickets, Remus picks the third bed and shoves his backpack under it, passing by a witch in a nightgown snoring loudly, and a father humming a lullaby for his little boy. As soon as he sits on the comforter, his leg muscles immediately relax, the soft bedding a balm for his tired limbs.

“She’s just been in the West Country, and it’s a busy night,” Sirius says as he comes back, flopping on the bed, arms spread. “Says we’re in for a long ride.”

Remus lies down, too, head on the only pillow, his side pressed against Sirius, taking in the flickering shadows cast on the wood-panelled walls by the candles burning beside each bed. His spine melts like butter in the soft embrace of the feathery mattress, but his mind is still spinning from their previous conversation.

Sirius said he’s staying, and they  _still_.

They should talk about a million things but he feels like they’ve already said everything that matters. Eight years passed, leaving behind a scattering of cuts and scars, and everything is foreign, different, and yet familiar at the same time. He forces himself to voice his doubts, to instil some reason, an ounce of sensibility, in their conversation.

“It must say a lot, that we’re so pathetic we’re unable to move on and we’re still stuck with each other,” says Remus, and it could be the most truthful, honest thing he’s ever said to Sirius.

“I’m alright with it,” Sirius breathes out, and it can’t be healthy or wise, to jump back into each other arms right after Sirius has moved back in the country, but it’s also like trying in vain to hold up a dam overflowing with eight years of missing and longing and solitude.

It’s far easier to let the wave of feelings wash everything away.

Sirius leans in and pecks him on the cheek, a shy, awkward kiss, even more precious because those sweet gestures never came easily to him, and Remus finds out he can’t speak anymore, not a word.

Maybe they’ll fuck up another time and hurt each other again and never have another straightforward conversation again, but maybe they won’t.

Remus turns his head on the pillow, Sirius so close he can smell his sweat, count his long, dark eyelashes, the blue veins on the papery skin of his eyelids. Sirius turns, too. Their gazes meet in the middle, on the borderline between before and after. “Sirius,” says Remus.

“Moony,” says Sirius, voice nothing more than a raspy croak.

And this is the present.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aryastark-valarmorghulis)  
> Artist's [Tumblr](https://blood-suits-and-tears.tumblr.com/)


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